A Borrowed Podium
by Griselda Banks
Summary: Oneshot. Postseries. Character death. "Edward ran his hands across the podium, staving off the moment when he would have to speak. The podium had been borrowed from the village church." There is no such thing as Elricest...in this story anyway.


**Author's Note: These are two very short stories that I believe share a soul, or a feeling, or something. Basically, these two stories are brothers, and I could hardly keep them apart. As for the title, I understand what it means in a poetical and abstract way, but I wouldn't be able to explain it, so don't ask XP**

Edward Elric sat on his chair in the front row, staring down at the toes of his boots and the grass around them. Detached phrases drifted into his ears and permeated his consciousness - phrases like 'a pure soul' and 'a gentle heart.' Edward clenched his fists on his knees and thought angrily, _They make him sound like an old woman._ The people who made such flowery speeches had obviously never really gotten to know him, and had little to no idea what he had really been like.

Gradually Edward became aware of a familiar deep voice, speaking slowly and carefully. "I knew him when he was still a child. I met him at the Central train station, and I'll have to admit that I paid little attention to him at the time. I was more concerned with his brother, whom I wished to see become a State Alchemist."

Edward covered his eyes with one hand, trying to blot out all those memories. Yet as long as he continued to listen to that voice, the memories kept pouring in.

"Many do not realize that the reason Alphonse did not receive the State Alchemist qualification that year was not due to his skill or intelligence. His written exam was easily one of the best in that group - perhaps even better than his brother's." He paused to allow a weak chuckle to ripple through the audience before continuing. "No, the reason Alphonse dropped out was so he could spare his brother the punishment of the law, since he was at that time without a body. This characterized Alphonse all throughout his life. He always thought of others before himself. I have been his brother's superior for many years, and I saw much of Alphonse throughout those years. His first concern was always for his brother, his second for others, and last of all for himself. I can only conclude by saying that he has been a tremendous inspiration for me."

There was a small pause as the next speaker came forward. When Edward heard the light woman's voice speak next, he pressed the heels of both hands into his eyes, trying to control himself.

"Al's been my friend for about as long as I can remember. It seems that we've always been neighbors, and we've always been close friends. Really, he felt more like a brother than anything else. I never fought with him as much as I do with Ed." She laughed sadly. "But he was never less driven than Ed. He wanted things to be put right, and he was always willing to make the proper sacrifices." Her voice broke, and it was several moments before she managed to burst out, "I miss him so much!"

Edward felt her sit down next to him, and heard her soft sobs. He slowly straightened up and took his hands away from his eyes. Everything looked strange, and a little blue, from the long time he had kept his eyes closed. He had a vague sort of feeling that he should try to comfort the sobbing woman next to him, but it was his turn to speak now. He briefly ran his hand across his eyes and got to his feet. Edward slowly made his way toward the small wooden platform before him. It was a hastily-built, crude thing, and could easily be taken down again when the ceremony was through. Like the folding chairs arranged in rows, the platform was only temporary. Edward put his foot onto the first step and laboriously heaved himself up. His limbs felt leaden and heavy, as though his entire body was made of heavy-duty automail.

The majority of these people would be gone by tomorrow, he realized. Like the platform and the chairs, they were only temporary. He wondered, as he turned to face the audience, how many of them actually cared. The Torn Soul Alchemist was rather famous, being the younger brother of the Full Metal Alchemist. Lots of these people probably never knew him, Edward thought. His fists began to clench at his sides, but then his eyes fell on the people who occupied the seats towards the front. Lots of them were military personnel of one kind or another. A tall, broad-shouldered man sat with tears pouring freely down his face, all hint of sparkle gone. The woman who sat next to him was hardly recognizable - for one thing, she had let her long golden hair cascade over her shoulders; for another, her eyes were filled with unshed tears. On the other side of this woman sat the deep-voiced man who had just recently spoken. He, too, seemed less than composed. Various other men and women, wearing their best military uniforms, sat in the front rows, some holding handkerchiefs to their eyes, others simply looking sad.

Edward ran his hands across the podium, staving off the moment when he would have to speak. The podium had been borrowed from the village church, since it had a microphone attached to it. The microphone was a little too high for him, so he adjusted it. Edward tried to feel the wood of the flat podium surface like Alphonse would feel it: like a completely new sensation, because it _was_ a new sensation to his new body. Edward ran his hand along his bearded chin and raised his head at last to face the audience.

"I guess you all know who I am," he said, slightly startled at the sheer volume of his voice, booming out across the hilltop. "Edward Elric, Full Metal Alchemist, Al's older brother." His lips quirked into what he supposed was a smile. He remembered all the times people had mistaken Al to be the older brother, because of his height. "I've heard all the things you've said about my brother today - that he was brave, and kind, and gentle and all that. All those things you've said are true, but... Everyone talks about him as if he's gone, like now he's dead he's just plain history, someone to be remembered and nothing more." He gripped the podium so tightly his knuckles turned white. "Well...I'd like to tell you that he's _not_ gone." Edward's voice died down to a whisper. "Al's right here, with me today. I just...can't touch him. Isn't it funny? He's so close, but I can't feel him. I want to feel him. I just want to reach out, and be able to tell my doubting mind he's there. Is that too much to ask?"

Edward's voice died away altogether. He rested his forehead against the podium began to sob.

* * *

People say my brother was short. Even by the time he had stopped growing, he hardly came up to most people's shoulders. People who hinted, not necessarily in a bad way, that he was short would soon be at the mercy of my brother's wrath. He was _extremely_ touchy about that. But you know what? My brother was tall. Oh sure, his physical height may not have been that impressive, but inside...my brother's spirit brushed the heavens. He was like a tall, strong tower, offering protection and inspiration to all.

One of the common first impressions of my brother was that he was selfish. This is understandable; he would yawn through people's monologues and tales of woe, and then interrupt with demands for information on the Philosopher's Stone. But everyone's got it all wrong. My brother wasn't thinking about himself. Every time he demanded information or anything else of someone, it was because he cared about me. Whenever I told him to look out for himself, and try to get back his original limbs, he would shake his head and tell me that retrieving my body was more important. The only way my brother was selfish was that he did everything so he could be happy with the ones he loved.

Lots of people called my brother a dog of the military. They say he sold his soul for privileges and prestige. They say that because they can't imagine any other reason a mere boy would become a State Alchemist. And there _were_ several times he gave the impression that they were right. A prime example would be his first official mission outside of Central, the time we inspected the Youswell coal mine. He went to Lieutenant Yoki's mansion and pretended to play along. When Halling's inn was destroyed, and his son begged my brother to make gold for them, my brother said equivalent trade stated there was no reason for him to help the townsfolk of Youswell. He made all those miners very angry, but in the end he managed to depose Yoki, rebuild Halling's inn, and hand the ownership of Youswell back to the people almost in one breath. And that's only one example of the many things my brother has done that didn't specifically benefit him. Haven't you ever wondered how he got the reputation for being a State Alchemist that sided with the public? I can tell you with full confidence that my brother never once sold his soul.

They say my brother was a genius. I suppose that's a logical assumption for a boy who became a State Alchemist at the age of twelve. Even while he was just a kid, he outwitted and defeated all kinds of people. He discovered the well-hidden plot in the military and put an end to it. Surely, only a genius could do that? And even if he hadn't done that, he would still be remembered as a genius, since he was one of only three or four living people who could transmute without a circle. But everyone's wrong; my brother was stupid. Wasn't it his idea in the first place to attempt to bring back our mother? Didn't he sacrifice his right arm to affix my soul to a suit of armor? He became seriously offended if anybody mentioned his height; he was honest to the point that it became dangerous for the people he loved. Does that sound like a genius to you? My brother was dumb, the stupid, wonderful idiot!

Everyone knows my brother is dead. No one questions it, not even Winry. That much was obvious by the huge crowd that attended his funeral. It shouldn't have surprised me, but it did. I hadn't realized until then just how many people my brother had befriended on our many travels. Miners, farmers, doctors, soldiers, priests, mechanics... The crowd was so varied, and everyone looked so sad. I was proud that this many people had come to pay their respects to my brother - _my_ brother! - but all the same... As I listened to the various speakers at the funeral service, I couldn't help but feel that they'd got it all wrong.

My brother _isn't_ dead. He's alive. When I try to tell people this, they look at me pityingly, as though thinking I've gone mad with grief. Alphonse, they say, your brother...well, he's gone. He's dead.

But that's just the thing! He's not. He lives on in me, in Winry, in his children and in all those friends who came to the funeral. I wonder if they can sense him as I can. Perhaps it's because of my extensive experience with souls, but I can sense at least a shred of my brother's soul inside me. He's there with a ready smile when I wake, and he lulls me to sleep when I lie down at night.

The painful thing is that I can't touch him. For a few blissful years, after my brother got our bodies back, I could reach out and feel him, in all his burning golden glory, as if I could reach out and grasp the sun. But then he was stripped away from me, and only the tiniest bit of him remains with me today. I can almost feel him, but not quite. It's just enough to tide me over until the day I die as well. These days, I smile and laugh and teach my brother's children about alchemy, but I spend my evenings sitting by the river. I'm just waiting for the day when I'll see a shadow fall onto the grass at my side, and a familiar voice say, "Come on, Al. Let's go." And then! Then I will rise, turn around, and smile as I take my brother's hand and he leads me away - away to the place where I'll be with Mom, and Nina, and Martel, and Mr. Hughes...but most of all, the place where my brother is.


End file.
